"'native to famous wits
Or hospitable.'
That, as guests or members, persons distinguished for rank, and social and convivial powers, have, through successive generations, been seated at its festive board— Bubb Dodington, Aaron Hill; Hoadley, author of The Suspicious Husband, and Leonidas Glover, are only a few names snatched from its early list. Sir Peere Williams, a gentleman of high birth and fashion, who had already shone in Parliament, was of the Club. Then came the days of Lord Sandwich, Wilkes, Bonnell Thornton, Arthur Murphy, Churchill, and Tickell. This is generally quoted as the golden period of the Society." Then there were the Colmans and Garrick; and John Beard, the singer, was president of the Club in 1784.
The number of the Steaks was increased from twenty-four to twenty-five, in 1785, to admit the Prince of Wales, an event of sufficient moment to find record in the Annual Register of the year: "On Saturday, the 14th of May, the Prince of Wales was admitted a member of the Beaf-steak Club. His Royal Highness having signified his wish of belonging to that Society, and there not being a vacancy, it was proposed to make him an honorary member; but that being declined by His Royal Highness, it was agreed to increase the number from twenty-four to twenty-five, in consequence of which His Royal Highness was unanimously elected. The Beaf-steak Club has been instituted just fifty years, and consists of some of the most classical and sprightly wits in the Kingdom." It is curious to find the Society here termed a Club, contrary to its desire, for it stickled much for the distinction.
Arthur Murphy, the dramatist, John Kemble, the Dukes of Clarence and of Sussex, were also of the Steaks: these princes were both attached to the theatre; the latter to one of its brightest ornaments, Dorothy Jordan.
Charles, Duke of Norfolk, was another celebrity of the Steaks, and frequently met here the Prince of Wales. The Duke was a great gourmand, and, it is said, used to eat his dish of fish at a neighbouring tavern—the Piazza, or the Grand—and then join the Steaks. His fidus Achates was Charles Morris, the laureate-lyrist of the Steaks. Their attachment was unswerving, notwithstanding it has been impeached. The poet kept better hours than his ducal friend: one evening, Morris having left the dinner-table early, a friend gave some significant hints as to the improvement of Morris's fortunes: the Duke grew generous over his wine, and promised; the performance came, and Morris lived to the age of ninety-three, to enjoy the realization.
The Duke took the chair when the cloth was removed. It was a place of dignity, elevated some steps above the table, and decorated with the insignia of the Society, amongst which was suspended Garrick's Ranger hat. As the clock struck five, a curtain drew up, discovering the kitchen, in which the cooks were seen at work, through a sort of grating, with this inscription from Macbeth:—
"If it were done, when 'tis done, then 'twere well
It were done quickly."
The steaks themselves were in the finest order, and in devouring them no one surpassed His Grace of Norfolk: two or three steaks, fragrant from the gridiron, vanished, and when his labours were thought to be over, he might be seen rubbing a clean plate with a shalot for the reception of another. A pause of ten minutes ensued, and His Grace rested upon his knife and fork: he was tarrying for a steak from the middle of the rump of beef, where lurks a fifth essence, the perfect ideal of tenderness and flavour. The Duke was an enormous eater. He would often eat between three and four pounds of beaf-steak; and after that take a Spanish onion and beet-root, chop them together with oil and vinegar, and eat them. After dinner, the Duke was ceremoniously ushered to the chair, and invested with an orange-coloured ribbon, to which a small silver gridiron[12] was appended. In the chair he comported himself with urbanity and good humour. Usually, the President was the target, at which all the jests and witticisms were fired, but moderately; for though a characteristic equality reigned at the Steaks, the influences of rank and station were felt there, and courtesy stole insensibly upon those who at other times were merciless assailants on the chair. The Duke's conversation abounded with anecdote, terseness of phrase, and evidence of extensive reading, which were rarely impaired by the sturdy port-wine of the Society. Charles Morris, the Bard of the Club, sang one or two of his own songs, the quintessence of convivial mirth and fancy; at nine o'clock the Duke quitted the chair, and was succeeded by Sir John Hippisley, who had a terrible time of it: a storm of "arrowy sleet and iron shower" whistled from all points in his ears: all rules of civilized warfare seemed suspended, and even the new members tried their first timid essays upon the Baronet, than whom no man was more prompt to attack others. He quitted the Society in consequence of an odd adventure which really happened to him, and which, being related with malicious fidelity by one of the Steaks, raised such a shout of laughter at the Baronet's expense that he could no longer bear it. Here is the story.